


These Brief Respites

by HilsonMarveyTibbs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Comfort, Father/Son, Gen, Mental Health Issues, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, i don't know how to tag, nice!Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HilsonMarveyTibbs/pseuds/HilsonMarveyTibbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hannibalkink fill: Jack is always portrayed as sort or a dick in fic, but that's mainly caused by recent trouble with Bella. I'd love to see Jack being fatherly and kind to Will, preferably when the latter was injured or angsty.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Your eyes flicker between Buddish kneeling in front of you and the child cowering in front of you. Are you the victim or the killer?</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Suddenly you’re both. And neither. You can’t tell what is and what was. Everything’s blending together. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	These Brief Respites

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Cullen Hightower, "We experience moments absolutely free from worry. These brief respites are called panic."

This time it was a child. He was young, short for his age, and weighed less than most. The boy had his intestines coiled atop his blood-soaked hair so that they resembled a (disturbing, crude) halo. You immediately think of Buddish (Angel-maker, terminal cancer patient, his own killer) and force yourself to hold your gaze on the brutalized corpse. 

Images of outstretched, pinned-up skin flicker between the beaten child made to wear his own organs. You feel your breathing pick up. Suddenly, the small bedroom you’re in seems too small. Too confined. Your eyes flicker between Buddish kneeling in front of you and the child cowering in front of you. Are you the victim or the killer?

Suddenly you’re both. And neither. You can’t tell what is and what was. Everything’s blending together. 

The barn rafters are chilly. Or is that the bedroom? The floor is loud, tiled. Hay and dirt mat the ground beneath your feet. You smell entrails. Manure. You smell death.

Suddenly a strong hand grips the back of your neck, knocking away your panic. 

You blink once. Twice. Thrice. 

Another large hand slowly moves into your vision, gently removing your glasses from face. The hand leaves your sight and you feel the edge of panic flare up, but it quickly recedes as the warmth at your neck tightens minutely. It isn’t a threatening, homicidal grip. No, it’s a reassuring comfort. It’s an anchor.

You inhale. Exhale. The room comes into focus. There is no hay; there’s tile, ceramic, intestines, crime scene investigators, forensic techs. You turn your head at the sound of your name, suddenly acutely aware of the quiet voice beckoning your attention as well as the standstill that the room has landed in. Everyone seems to be waiting for him to respond and for a moment you feel like laughing. 

Everyone is waiting for you to be okay, for you to focus. They don’t seem to understand that you’re never okay, and focus was impossible with them in the same space as you.

“Will?” The soothing voice reiterates, and you feel your reply rise in your throat before your brain even catches up with you.

“Yes?” Your eyes land on a tiny scar, barely noticeable on Jack’s face. It looks like an old knife wound. Not a real dangerous one, but it must have been jarring nonetheless. Anything that left a scar, no matter how visible was no doubt alarming.

“Pardon my phrasing for I know you never are, but are you okay?” You allow yourself the briefest of smiles, blink and you miss it. 

“Better. Not as confused, certainly.” You’re suddenly mindful of the space – or lack thereof – between you and Jack. You take a step back. He nods once, looks you up and down as if making sure he put all the pieces back in their correct spots before he turns to leave the room, bidding the other personnel to follow with a flick of his hand. He’s almost out the door when you speak.

“Thanks, Jack.”

He turns and you’re surprised he heard you, but that feeling is quickly overwhelmed by the shock at the small, genuine smile he gives you before he leaves the room completely.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be kind and comment and give kudos, this is my first Hannibal fic and I'm not entirely sure with characterization and writing style.


End file.
